


Impressions of a Jewel

by Amethyst97Skye



Series: Dragon Age One-Shots [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Friendship/Love, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, Light-Hearted, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 06:38:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8834230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethyst97Skye/pseuds/Amethyst97Skye
Summary: Solavellan will always hold a special place in my heart...





	1. Impressions of a Jewel: Lost in Translation

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Depictions of attempted suicide and self-harming in Chapter 2. You have been warn. Please do not read if such subjects upset you. I do not make light, or think lightly, of these concerns.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jewel is not the Inquisitor, just another elven apostate who offered aid, and this greatly interests Solas.

Solas only just caught the door in time before it slammed shut, encasing the frame in a thin sliver of magic that acted as a buffer and a shield, allowing it to close silently without damaging the wood, or walls beside it.

He turned on his heels and marched left, circling around the back of the hut Cassandra had allotted him. Jewel, as Varric had taken to calling her, had been set up next door. Besides them, the remaining mages were Circle trained and none had expressed any desire to associate with a pair of elven apostates. This suited Solas just fine. He was not used to sharing, and it was perfectly clear Jewel was not used to company; rather, she was not used to being in close proximity with anyone. It was to be expected. Solas knew it would be a while before he got her face out of his head, the way it had fallen when he told her she had lost two years of her life…

It was because of Jewel that he had left the hut. No, that was untrue. It was the circumstances surrounding Jewel that had seen him leave and gather his thoughts. Her face would have been beautiful, once, but now it was so viciously scarred it was a wonder she could still see.

_Jewel? What’s wrong? Your scars, do they hurt?_

_Not hurt._ She shook her head. _Old_ , she said, holding up three pale fingers.

It didn’t take much to imagine how she had obtained them. A ritual gone wrong, an unwilling sacrifice, an uncontrollable demon and – Solas heaved in a deep breath and slowly, purposefully let it out through his nose.

\---

She was still writing when he returned, her cramped but neat script filling the parchment right to the very edge.

“Solas back,” she smiled, openly, then it fell into something rather timid and shy Solas did not like.

Before he could think up a reply that did not sound vague or insulting – the Hands had asked him to “get to know her”, and he could not do that if he kept pushing her away, as much as he might want to – she offered him a cup. It was filled with recently boiled water, and it smelled like honey. It was a simply gesture, one of peace, it seemed, but... she did not know, did not understand, not what it meant. Not truly. He could very well be reading too much into the situation, and he acknowledged as such, but she had not poured a cup for herself.

“I bow… I bow-row,” she explained, frowning as she gestured to the pot he had set aside for the survivor. It was not much, but it _had_ helped. “I… I not hurt you?”

Cursing internally, Solas shook his head. “No, _da’len_ ,” he assured, taking a sip and shuddering at the taste. Having already given him another, warmer shy smile, Jewel had set about tidying up her work – what it was, Solas still had no idea – and was relieved she did not notice.

It was subtle, the essence, that she had mixed in with the honey, and Solas knew it was exclusively hers. Her magic. It was wild, like she had become, but it was controlled, balanced, like nature. Indeed, Solas could liken Jewel to nature; while she appeared perfectly tame on the surface, but beneath there was a storm of power, the elements and weather working in tandem, stoking an ever burning fire that, even if left to its own devices, would forever refuse to die.

“Solas still war-ree?” she asked, giving him such a wide eyed look that made him acutely aware just how vulnerable he felt.

Raising his shields and pulling his mask back on, Solas gave her a soft sort of smirk and evaporated the remainder of his drink as he took a seat opposite. A waste, yes, but he was not comfortable consuming another drop.

“I always worry, _da’len_ ,” he replied, carefully withholding the true extent of his exhaustion.

Jewel nodded, her brows furrowing as if he had said something exceptionally deep and profound. Solas would be lying if he said the woman did not interest him, a curious puzzle he not only wanted to solve but determine the origins of. Her past, however, was an unspeakable topic. Given time, perhaps, she would trust him. Somehow, she had gained the confidence of the so-called “Herald of Andraste” on trek up the mountain, and having a friend so close to him – and his advisers – could prove exceptionally profitable.

“Tie not war… _woe_ -ree too match,” was her careful, calculated response. Solas could feel the gears turning in her head, as if her mind were one of Varric’s infernal contraptions. “Max wake to-more-row and he will help. See-ker Pen-tar-gasp not hurt you. I not leet her.”

It was quite moving, so very much so that Solas almost believed her. Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Da'len = Child.


	2. Impressions of a Jewel: Robins and Ravens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is set directly after Lavellan and Solas tried, and failed, to save Wisdom. For Lavellan, it's just one failure too many.
> 
> WARNING: Self-harming and attempted suicide.

Varric called her jewel. Jewels occur naturally, but they’re cut and cleaned to meet demands. She isn’t a jewel, just a cheap imitation; she was created one way for a purpose she can’t determine, much less understand, but she is willing to try. She isn’t clear like a diamond but clouded, imperfect, the way nature intended, but she’s made an abomination of herself, transforming all she is into something she isn’t and can never be.

Jewel looked down at her hand, the mismatched peaks of the M-shaped scar goading her. Marauder, murderer, maleficar. The “W” glares and grins at her, its valleys two sharp claws, teeth and tongues waiting to seize and strike when she least expects.

_May the Dread Wolf take you._

For everything it’s given her, it took it all away and very soon she’ll have nothing left, nothing to fight for. The truth _does_ hurt, and the lie she’s been telling herself for weeks, months even, aches all the more for it.

She doesn’t think. She just acts, bending to the emotions she’s ignored for so long they’ve become a monster she can’t kill, or even fight, because it’s her fault and she’s sorry. She gave it her all, and it’s not enough. So, she does the next best thing and draws the spare dagger she hides in her boot. She’s thought about it too many times to count, but she doesn’t remember any scrap of reason or logic that made her drop the blade before. Now she slices the cold metal across her wrist. It’s quick, clean and clinical, and it feels gloriously agonising. The pain flashes white hot through her mind and she falls to her knees, watching the blood gush free. The sight isn’t nearly as appealing as the fantasy because she can’t hack off her hand, but she will die from blood loss. A slow and painful demise, but a blessing compared to most, something she knows she doesn’t deserve and doesn’t want, not anymore.

His name escapes on a gasp, and again on a sob, but he isn’t there to hear. She’s crying as she begs, pleads and prays to Andraste – to the Maker, Mythal, and the Old Gods – to send him back. They won’t listen to her, she knows, but she prays anyway. What else can she do? Poultices can’t heal deep wounds like this, they’re running low on potions, and she was never any good at healing. She makes a mental note to ask Vivienne when she gets back to Skyhold, because she _will_ get back. She must. Thedas is counting on her, even if no one outside - or inside - the Inquisition wants to admit it.

She half staggers, half crawls, to her pack after wrapping the elven cowl she wore around her wrist. It had been fashioned after one of those fancy desert hats she can’t remember the name of. She focuses on that, the need to know, as she fishes around for a potion; her throat’s too dry to talk, much less shout for help, but she can’t find even a single vial, and anything her fingers to snag on she can’t grasp. Her vision fades from white to black through several shades of grey, and the treasures of her latest adventures spill out onto the floor of her tent when she slumps onto her side.

 _A keffiyeh_ , she sighs, closing her eyes. _It’s called a keffiyeh._

Soothingly cool hands urge her to wake and she complies, her eyes falling upon her heavily bound wrist and the large black hat lying beside her leg.

“The robin’s breast is red,” he says.

“Then I’ll wear a red robe today,” she agrees, too tired to smile or cry.

"The dress with the white skirt and red bodice," he corrects.

“Thank you,” was all she could sigh, and she meant, with every fibre of her being.

“I know. You know. He knows. We all know." A pause. "I’ll stay. He should have stayed. He should have helped. You tried. That’s more than most, but… not enough. You tried. Be yourself, he said, so you opened up, to him – to her – but he shut you out. Locked away, cast aside, unwanted and unloved. I love you, too.” Another pause, then, “Ravens were white, once. But no, not blacker than the Taint, or the song. Your songs are white. They’ll be white once more. He’ll be back, but I will always stay.”


	3. Pot Luck - Varric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who could resist the temptation to tease Varric? Certainly not Lavellan.

The Herald’s Rest was always busy, but rarely restful, and today was no different. Everyone seemed to be gathered around the table Varric had so swiftly claimed upon the tavern’s construction, so Jewel meandered over, hoping to hear the end of another fantastically exaggerated tale. Alas, the dwarf wasn’t telling tales but taking bets for another one of his pools. As she edged closer, catching whippets of conversation about “kisses”, “dinner” and “doing the dirty”, Jewel scuttled her way through the crowd until she reached the stairs.

Reigning above on the first-floor landing, she had the perfect view of a large sheaf of parchment decorated with names and various accomplishments. Above, the title The Inquisitor’s Love Life glared up at her like Veil Fire in the Fallow Mire. Jewel skimmed the rows, catching sight of “Cullen”, “Blackwall” and “The Iron Bull” along with “Solas” ( _as if_ , she scoffed), “Delrin Barris” and near a dozen others she only knew by name or didn’t know at all. The columns listed increasingly outrageous conditions from “first kiss” to “marriage proposals”, and further still, though Jewel suspected there was a darker pool with even stranger names and stranger tasks for them to complete. There was one thing, however, that struck her as rather odd: not a single woman had been mentioned.

In all honestly, Jewel favoured men in her fantasies, but she had never been of a mind to try them out, and some of them had involved women, even if they weren’t members of the Inquisition.

“Hey, Jewels! I can hear you frowning from down here.”

“Hello to you, too, Varric,” Jewel waved, duly noting the far sparser crowd. _How long have I been musing…?_ “Having fun, are we?”

“If I said ‘yes’, what would my punishment be?”

“Umm… A rotation in the Hissing Wastes. With our favourite Seeker.”

“Such cruel torture!” Varric lamented, grinning all the while. “If I bought you a drink, would you be willing to forget my unprofessionalism?”

“It can’t hurt your chances,” Jewel replied, bouncing on down, Varric dutifully ordering a glass of her favourite Antivan red wine. “I see you’ve been busy,” she smirked, gesturing at the rolls of parchment currently curled beside the legendary storyteller.

“Ah, new rumours. Have to keep up to date with demands. Speaking of such, how are you holding up?”

“Much better now I’ve got some company. Everyone seems to have disappeared, and if I do find them they’re in the last place I’d never think to look.” Taking a thoughtful sip, Jewel glared down at the rolls of parchment. There was, now, one less than before. “I did a little spying way up yonder,” she admitted, pointing to her perch on the floor above, “and I can’t help but voice my disappointment.”

“Disappointment? Ah, Jewels, it’s only a little fun.”

“Oh, I know, and I don’t mind. But really, Varric, I’d thought you’d have caught on by now.”

“Well, let’s pretend I haven’t. Care to share what I’ve so blatantly missed.”

“There aren’t any women on your list.” Varric blinked, and Jewel could imagine the gears in his head turning; it took all of her reserve to hide a broad grin behind a mask of delicate dissatisfaction. “Ah, well,” she sighed, finishing off her glass and tossing three silver onto the table, “looks like I’ll be keeping Skyhold in the dark a while longer. Have a good evening, Varric. I know I will.”

When Jewel reached the door, she turned back to find the dwarf hastily scribbling in a journal she knew wasn’t reserved for on-the-spot story snippets and ideas.


	4. Pot Luck - Vivienne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you dare drink tea with the Iron Lady? The Iron Bull doesn't, but Lavellan does. Well, when I say 'tea', it's more gossip about, and plotting punishment for, the Inquisitor's suitors.

“Excuse me, Madame de Fer, might I have a word with you?”

“Of course, my dear. How may I help you?”

“I’d like your advice on a certain matter of the court: suitors.”

“Yes,” Vivienne agreed, nodding gravely, “our dear Ambassador has told me of all the proposals she’s been receiving.”

“I was referring to a something a… little closer to home. Varric has finally revealed the book he’s running on people I’m inclined to sleep with, according to the people of Skyhold.”

“You wish to stop it.”

“Well, if I must. Honestly, I rather wanted to make a game of it.” It was small, but Vivienne was smiling, like a cat sampling the finest cream. “I made an offhanded comment on how he failed to consider the women of Skyhold. Having had… little experience with romance, of any sorts, I can’t say I have anything of a preference.”

“A useful card to guard, my dear. It will help you garner far more affection if the women of court believe you’re just as likely to blush for them as for their husbands and sons. But I sense you were thinking along the lines of more… vindictive pleasures.”

“Vindictive is a little harsh, but, yes. I’m not a mouse to be chased. I want to lead, to confuse and, finally, to capture.”

“Darling, the Winter Court is going to absolutely adore you.” Jewel had never seen Vivienne look so proud about someone other than herself. “Give me an hour, and I’ll have the news spread to the four corners of Skyhold. Not that they will understand what they hear, of course, the simpletons. But, what of your advisers, my dear?”

“Sister Nightingale will see through my mirage, and Ambassador Montilyet, but they may still be encouraged to tempt our Commander to act rather than stare and whine like a dog.”

“He is Ferelden, dear.”

“Without a clear enemy to engage, yes, I agree. But he could be so much more than that if only he stepped out of his shadow.”

Vivienne shook her head in an, almost, fondly manner. “First, gossip. Join me for dinner and we’ll discuss your wardrobe. Do you have anything in mind?”

“Hmm… Something subtle, so I could claim I’ve not noticed the changes you and Josie have made, but something a little… bolder than my present practically. Something that says ‘you will fear the warrior and love the woman’. And I’ll need to do something with my hair…”


	5. Sweet Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a day battling Maker only know what, the party return to camp, but Solas has trouble sleeping. Lavellan takes pity on him, and decides to sing a little song...
> 
> Lavellan's song, with lyrics (both English and Elven): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zl3CmzQY1So  
> Falon has been submitted in place of da'len for this one-shot.

“ _Atisha_ , Solas. Be at peace. You are _eth_. You are safe. _Hamin, falon_. You are still weak, _souveri_. _Hamin_. Rest.”

Solas released a breath he had not realised he was holding and shut his eyes as he sighed. Her words were firm in their weight and strength, calming in both their sincerity and practicality.

Sighing once more, in exasperation, Solas beckoned her forward. “Come here, da’len.”

The smallest of frowns creased her brow but, slowly, she complied, tensing as Solas weaved an arm around her back. His hands did not stray and her unease gradually melted from her bones.

“Sleep, _falon_ ,” she whispered, the creases of drowsiness deepening her voice ever so slightly, giving it the mildest husky tenor.

“Soon, _da’len_ ,” he promised, his own voice as resolute as ever.

At her sigh Solas frowned, reluctantly releasing his grasp as she shuffled this way and that, finally settled not but an inch higher.

“Your face will stay that way if you let it,” she whispered, not quite in his ear. With a ‘ _hmm’_ , Solas dropped his frown for the smallest of smirks, a twitch of his lips he tried to fight. “Listen to my voice, _falon_. Think of nothing else.”

Solas _was_ listening, not that he would ever admit it.

_“Elgara vallas, falon,_

_Melava somniar._

_Mala tar aravas,_

_Ara ma'desen melar._

_Iras ma ghilas, falon,_

_Ara ma'nedan ashir?_

_Dirthara lothlenan'as,_

_Bal emma mala dir._

_Tel'enfenim, falon,_

_Irassal ma ghilas,_

_Ma garas mir renan,_

_Ara ma'athlan vhenas._

_Ara ma'athlan vhenas…”_

 

“Um… again, _da’len_.”

A soft chuckle, warm like a summer breeze, and a sly, satisfied smile crossed her lips. “You owe me, _falon_.” She pressed a feather-light kiss to the fluttering pulse at his neck, not lingering long enough to feel it jump, before once again humming the tune.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Atisha = Peace/peaceful.  
> Da'len = Child.  
> Eth = Safe.  
> Falon = Friend  
> Hamin = Rest/relax.  
> Souveri = Weary/tired.


End file.
